Forgotten Melody

It was just before noon, and we were out on our regular walk. The air was stale and thick while the sun approached its peak in the early-May sky. We were up by the old farm supply store, Sam banging a stick along the construction fences that sealed off the torn-down grain silo and loading dock. They said it would be turned into a large grocery store – half of the entire property to be devoted to a substantial parking lot. But that was a few years ago and the lot still remains undisturbed by construction crews. At night rowdy teenagers tend to hop the fence, sift through the rubble and tag any remaining fragments large enough to host a healthy dose of spray paint.

As the stick bounced along the fence posts, I gazed down to watch Sam's feet pound away the blocks of sidewalk. His jeans are faded, but without any holes or loose threads. His generic, white (or rather a dirty, pale brown) tennis shoes, however, aren't so lucky. Especially the one on the left foot, with a patch of silver duct tape sealing off a rather substantial hole in the toe. The soles have become smooth and worn down and the laces frayed, but as long as they're comfortable and can repel moisture from the winter and spring rainfall, Sam keeps wearing them.

A smooth melody drifted out of the air. I perked my ears and wrinkled my nose. This was peculiar. Without saying a word, Sam raised an eyebrow and we veered from the path along the fence and headed down the highway, following the ever-constant flow of cars passing through. We continued along the main street until we found, sitting outside the old print shop next to the deli, a young man playing a stringed instrument. A large backpack was off to the side, and the instrument case laid open for passers-by to give tokens of appreciation. Once Sam discovered that this was the source of the lofty melody, he crossed the street and headed for the dilapidated park. The remaining morning dew on the long, uncut grass collected into silvery orbs on the toe of Sam's left shoe. He sat down at the faded bench, with his back to the young man, and closed his eyes. I couldn't help but be transfixed – I gazed uncontrollably over Sam's shoulder as I studied every movement of the lone musician and his bow.

The young man paused and started on another tune. Sam began to tap his fingers with each note, his head nodding with the swells of melody. The performer stumbled through a phrase, and Sam furrowed his eyebrows while his hand hesitated. After rushing through a handful of notes the song eventually fell back into step with Sam's fingers, percussing the faded wood of the bench.

An elderly couple strolled by and dropped a bill into the instrument's case. The young man smiled, and held an unusually long note while mentally tallying the contents of his collection. I tilted my head and wrinkled my nose in anticipation for the next note. Without finishing the phrase, he promptly packed up and headed into the deli. He emerged moments later with a sandwich and strode down along the highway, the numerous straps on his large backpack swaying with each step. At the intersection he turned right and headed out of town, following the usual flow of motor traffic that never seems to stop and give this once again quiet town a second thought.

So here we are, the sun has peaked and is starting its decline. Sam is repeatedly tapping out the melody to the last song, while I'm curled up on the other end of the bench enjoying the heat of a cloudless spring day. Abruptly Sam whistles once, and I scamper up his arm and onto his shoulder. He gets up, and we saunter down the highway. Upon reaching the intersection he casually surveys the options. I wrinkle my nose, and he reaches up to scratch the warm fur on my back. He turns to the right and starts off with a determined pace. I gaze down to watch the patch of duct-tape rhythmically surge in and out of view. No, we certainly haven't gone to the right before. How peculiar.